In Pursuit of Lavender

1

Twenty yards of linen are worth one coat.

I’ve been running and running but still can’t shake off that voice. Knowing that it’s an auditory hallucination doesn’t help me put a stop to it. Even the doctors couldn’t do that.

Twenty yards of linen are worth one coat.

I haven’t a clue what it means, but when I hear it, I fall apart. Fretful, impulsive, I fall under the sway of a pitch-black throbbing, like a bicycle in the night that loses its brakes at the top of a mountain pass and goes careening down the slope.

It was high tide and Hakata Bay had surged back up the Hiikawa, the water reaching almost to the bridge planks. I was running along the narrow private road behind Seinan Gakuin Christian university, my back to the sea. I was not going back to the hospital ever again.

Twenty yards of linen are worth one coat.

We crossed Yokatopia-dori, and found ourselves in what for the moment was a magical safety zone. I glanced back, but already our hospital, lying beyond the neat, closely packed condo buildings rising above the reclaimed land, was quite invisible. Still to be seen were the metallic blue triangular prism of Fukuoka Tower and the baseball dome with its red-rust-colored roof.

Not far behind me was Nagoyan, pattering along in his sandals. Let’s rest! he gasped.

He doubled over in the shade of a tree as though about to vomit. We were in a triangular lot overgrown with grass on the north side of an old and superannuated municipal housing development along the river. A sea breeze to which I would normally have been oblivious had bent all of the trees in the direction of the town. We had crossed no more than one boulevard, but suddenly the landscape was subdued, the air thinner.

I’m out of steam, said Nagoyan by way of excuse.

Hafta stay on the run, I replied, trying to catch my breath. This is jus’ the sorta place we’ll get us nabbed.

On the run? Where to?

Doesn’t matter – we’re on the lam, remember?

It’s no good! Let’s go back.

A right wuss, aren’tcha Nagoyan!

He pursed his lips and glared at me.

Twenty yards of linen are worth one coat.

Twenty yards of linen are worth one coat.

We staggered on.

The escape itself wasn’t hard. We had been inmates of the Momochi Psychiatric Hospital near Fukuoka Tower, both housed in the open, unisex C Ward. Most of the patients were suffering from depression, but there were also some with symptoms of atypical schizophrenia and psychosis. Momochi is the largest dedicated psychiatric hospital in Kyushu. In addition to C Ward were Wards A, B, D, and E, forming a quadrangular courtyard. A Ward was closed and sex-segregated; B Ward was for drug- and alcohol-dependent patients; Ward D was for children. Ward E was an enigma: rumor had it that those who entered it were never allowed to leave.

Even though we were in a supposedly unrestricted ward, we still called it a prison: Prison C. There were no iron bars, but the windows couldn’t be opened wider than three centimeters. Aside from the routine of meals and medication three times a day, there was little for us to do. We had two meetings with the doctor every week, each lasting at most ten minutes.

Having been admitted as manic, I was still very much on an irrepressible high during the initial consultation. I jabbered on and on and then finally asked in high spirits, Doctor, how much longer till my discharge?

You need to stick it out until you’ve settled down a bit more.

That was all he said. I wasn’t allowed any overnights at home, and my parents complied with that, so I came to feel I had no home to return to. My mind remained with the clarity that comes from staying up all night; oddly enough, despite sleep deprivation, I was still physically healthy. The summer was waning, even as I dithered – dithered as to what to do in this, the one and only summer of my twenty-first year. In my crazed mind, turgid water was surging. It was all so excruciating – the loathsome idea of ending the season there in prison.

The path along the river was largely deserted. Tottering from fatigue, we were headed toward Showa Avenue. The sight of Nishijin Palace’s giant bowling pin meant that we were quite close to Nishijin Station – and that is my briar patch. There may not be any luxury items on sale there, but it has almost everything else. Normally, it was fun just to stroll along, looking at the battalion of vendor carts stretching down the middle of the street all the way to Fujisaki, with fresh vegetables and flowers to sell. Fortunately, we were dressed in ordinary clothes; Nagoyan in a polo shirt and chinos, myself in a T-shirt and jeans.

At the hospital, reveille was at six-thirty. At seven we gathered in the dining room and did our NHK radio exercises. We were told that in order to maintain the semblance of normal life, we were to wear everyday attire, not pajamas. We were also forbidden to take naps. The prescribed footwear was sandals, not slippers. We took baths during morning hours on Tuesdays and Fridays; on other days, we were unable even to shower. I wasn’t exactly sticky with sweat, as the air conditioning system’s thermostat was set so low that it gave me headaches, but having only twice-weekly baths caused me to worry about my armpits and to forgo wearing anything sleeveless.

We were allowed to watch television for only two hours, between five and seven in the evening, with everyone gathered in the dining room. I was suffering from hallucinations and was afraid that they would blend in with the sound of the TV. Between two and five in the afternoon, we were allowed to take up to an hour’s walk about the hospital grounds. By entering our names in the sign-out log, we could have a nurse open the door for us. Within the grounds there was really nowhere to go; our options were to stroll to and fro in the well-kept courtyard or walk across the street from the hospital to the local Lawson. Yet undertaking even that modest venture beyond the gate was vastly better than being cooped up in the ward.

Twenty yards of linen are worth one coat.

I had decided that morning to make a run for it. That meant wearing shoes, not sandals. And, of course, I couldn’t take anything with me, as a nurse was checking on everyone leaving the ward. In my pockets were my purse and house key.

I had intended to leave alone but changed my mind when I saw Nagoyan. Squatting in a corner of the courtyard, a sad expression on his face, he was playing with a stray cat that scampered off as I approached.

I stood next to Nagoyan and said, Say, let’s make a break fer it.

His response to my suggestion was a puzzled Huh?

"Let’s go! Let’s git out of ’ere!"

Nagoyan’s heart was not really in it, but he toddled along nonetheless.

We passed through the outpatient department, turned toward the rear of the hospital, and exited from the parking lot. As there was not so much as a security guard there, all we had to do to get out without a hitch was not to act in a hurry.

We entered a residential neighborhood. I had already been champing at the bit to the point of explosion, so once we lost sight of the low fence surrounding the hospital, I began to run.

Hey, Hana-chan! Wait a minute! shouted Nagoyan, as he followed me.

Nagoyan’s real name was Yomogida Tsukasa, a bit of a mouthful, so at first we all carefully called him Yomogida-san. He in turn called me Hanada-san. He was a twenty-four-year-old company man with dyed brown hair.

While everyone else talked in the thick local speech of Hakata, Saga, Chikko, and Kita-Kyushu, Nagoyan stuck to the national standard. As he thus stood out from the rest of us, he was naturally asked his provenance. Tokyo! he declared.

Must be fearsome hard to live there! was everyone’s comment, but he invariably issued a placid denial, Nothing of the kind…For the moment I happen to be in Kyushu, but eventually I’ll be going back.

It was all a lie. When his parents came for their one and only visit, they squawked in pure Nagoya dialect. Those of us who had never been out of Kyushu and had only heard such speech in television dramas were most curious, and so we all, save for an ailing patient who returned to his ward, remained in the dining room, eager to eavesdrop.

Ya know, Tsukasa, his mother remarked, Grannie’s been awful worried ’bout ya!

No sense frettin’ on it, now that you’ve already got yusself put into hospital, said his father.

The entire dining room reverberated with the sound. Our faces were contorted with the strain of suppressed giggles. Nagoyan did not slip once in his use of proper language, not even with his own parents. I thought them an odd family indeed, with their different ways of